


Like Normal People

by Red



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:04:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red/pseuds/Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John walks in on Sherlock and a syringe. It's not quite what he thinks, and she reminds him--again--how dull "normalcy" really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Normal People

He might never have found out in the first place, had the two of them been able to knock on the bathroom door before entering, like normal people.

It was as common a day as any--John had spent the morning working at the clinic, only to beg out of the afternoon's appointments to run some apparent life-or-death errand Sherlock had texted about, and now John was on his way to give Sherlock the usual debriefing on what _actually_ constituted as a life-or-death situation.

John was bloody well used to Holmes barging in the bathroom for some quote-unquote urgent affair. If John's showers were open to interruption--open to an in-depth lecture on sterile technique in the rearing of botfly maggots, for that matter--Holmes could damn well listen to the finer points on why it isn't polite to trick your flatmate into running off from work to pick up your own damn dry-cleaning.

He could only hope, as stormed through the flat, that Holmes needed the hangers to save an heiress or solve some dry-cleaning-related bank robbery.

"Sherlock," he yelled again as he prepared to shoulder the bathroom door open, unsurprised when he realized Holmes hadn't even bothered with the by-now-beyond-repair latch, "I'll have you know that I--"

Living with Sherlock meant being well-used to scenes that could toss you into a stunned silence. Refrigerators full of disembodied heads, jars of microwaved eyes, that tea cup with some green decomposed mass that John swore he saw move--at this point, John simply expected the unexpected. Hell, it'd only been two Saturdays past that he'd found the bathroom infested with oysters.

But there was still little more unsettling than Sherlock Holmes with a syringe in hand.

"The hell do you think you're doing?"

Before he'd realized it, John was across the room with his hand over Holmes's, stalling the trajectory of the injection. Fresh as the memory of Lestrade's drug bust still was, John had only belatedly--pressed close against an irritated Holmes, hand gripping tight--stopped and observed what Holmes would likely have seen from the street. The gauge and length of the needle, clearly sized for intra-muscular injection; the colour and amount of fluid in the syringe; the presence of the small vial on the sink, handwritten label and all.

He had glanced up at Holmes, taking in the wary, resigned expression, and had said the first thing that came to mind.

"Did you just buy that on the street?"

"John, I do hope you know there's more to the Internet than blogging. And is that really your only question? Aren't you going to ask something even more idiotic--perhaps, for example, 'the hell do you think you're doing'?"

"There's only so many reasons to inject oestrogen. I assume you're not worried about your bone density." And you could give me some credit, I just might know a bit about medicine, he had thought; but learning not to take assumed idiocy personally was part of knowing Sherlock.

"Yes, but it surely must be surprising. Statistically speaking, you should be--"

"Shocked? Disgusted? Violent? For god's sake, Sherlock, has it ever occurred to you to trust someone?"

"Not entirely, no," Sherlock had said, a low murmur, glancing aside.

Not for the first time, John could see how vulnerable Sherlock was, under all that intellectual hubris. Sherlock had always seemed so young, so strangely touched by the slightest compliment. Though they'd been living together now for months, John felt he was eternally just now meeting this arrogant and delicate person.

"You know the kind of stuff they find in black-market hormones? You could just go to a GIC, you know," he said, and added to bring back that arrogance, "Like normal people."

"And have a vapid and over-worked correspondence degree holder attempt to psychoanalyse my mind? You do know they get a bit upset when you demand hormones and don't quite add up to what they think a woman ought to be like. At least attempt thinking, John."

"Could get a private doctor," he'd said. He hadn't had much else to suggest. It wasn't quite his specialty, he had to admit, and the girlfriend of one of his old medical school mates had been (like, he imagined, everyone else in England) a bit more ordinary than Sherlock. For all he knew, Sherlock could quite easily purify black-market hormones with a few stolen pipettes and a coffee filter.

Perhaps his concerns were entirely baseless, and Holmes was merely becoming more annoyed at his crowding and hounding him in the middle of some self-advised transition appointment, and was only thinking of an even better insult to put John in his place and--

"Ah, yes," Sherlock had said, smiling in that sudden mercurial way John was all too familiar with, "But where to find one?"

\---

So maybe, strictly speaking, writing prescriptions for your flatmate's anti-androgens and hormones wasn't proper medical practice.

Particularly when you were adjusting the dosage based on bloodwork she was drawing and running up personally.

In your kitchen.

But, as John reminded himself, trespassing on private property and playing coroner at all hours and sleeping while at your real job wasn't professional behaviour either, and that was all just a typical Tuesday.

Months later, the changes weren't exactly subtle. Still, no one save for John seemed to notice, and Holmes never seemed to mind--if anything, she was merely amused by the continued proof in the utter inability of the human race to process any external data.

Holmes dressed no different, made no effort to inform anyone besides John and her arch-enemy--who, of course, knew already and only alluded to Mummy tearing up next Christmas.

She responded unpredictably to any difference in John's behaviour to her--no, she was not changing her name; yes, she would like a bit more privacy in the bathroom; no, John was not extended the same--but John couldn't question it. Any person who shot harpoon guns at pig carcasses as early-morning exercise wasn't likely to be much for conventionality.

What confused John was the timing of it.

Why now? Why bother? Sherlock had no friends to speak of, her enemies were largely disinterested, her colleagues obtuse and already resigned to her status of Consulting Freak. While Sherlock did seem more comfortable these days--though certainly no less intense--John wondered why she hadn't sought out some favour-owing physician earlier. It seemed difficult to believe she could predict a destitute army doctor would just drop in St. Bart's one day looking to go in on a flat.

Eventually, it became one of several mysteries about Sherlock to which John had resigned himself. He had more important things to worry about--paying the bills, making sure Sherlock ate at least once a week, and avoiding getting any bullets lodged in the either of them were a bit nearer to the top of the list.

As was the fact that he'd been finding himself with fewer and fewer dates lately.

Somehow, he just seemed to have more and more excuses for Sarah, who'd eventually just given up trying. Most of these were, he thought, pretty valid--big family murder involving whistle-powered snakes, probably best to check it out. That sort of thing. But at a certain point, you do have to admit that answering texts reading "Sarasate, tickets from thankful party, come at once," from your flatmate is a rather poor excuse for not going on a date.

In fact, he had thought one night--probably a bit belatedly, considering they were midway through what looked suspiciously like a romantic dinner, no stake-out in sight and with Sherlock actually eating something--it was almost as if he had been on dates in the last few months.

Quite a few of them.

With Sherlock Holmes.

And it was later that night, after he'd tried to ask her if they were dating by now while pretending he didn't just figure it out, and after he'd almost shyly (unsure as ever of Sherlock's reaction to this kind of thing) stood on the second step to kiss her, and after they'd barely found the patience to push the pile of month-old papers off of Sherlock's bed that the timing question came back to him.

In bed the height difference wasn't nearly so absurd, and he lay curved against her back, face in her thick hair. Beneath his palm her sleek thigh was relaxed.

It was almost surprising, seeing her so drowsy, so human.

He wondered briefly--almost asked about it, but he wasn't about to waste having that incessant brain switched off for once--if Sherlock had done all this misguidedly for his benefit. Though he'd never say as much, given Sherlock's ego barely fit in the city limits anyway, she was easily the most incredible woman John had ever met, regardless of external appearance. He imagined she'd be just as happy a brain in a jar anyway and not have to bother with all that hassle of eating and sleeping.

Sherlock probably thought she knew as much about John's feelings. He could almost imagine her saying as much, "John. Honestly, Percy Phelps? Rest assured, the dark secret of your bisexuality rests safely with me," and he'd have to spend the greater part of the night explaining no, not really the point, thanks. Brilliant as she was in other matters, when it came to some things--astronomy, politics, any sort of knowledge of human emotion--she came up a bit short.

Whoever Sherlock thought she was doing this for was a bit of a mystery. She wasn't too adept at reading her own emotions, after all. John knew he'd likely have stopped being so obtuse himself and realize that he probably cared for her more than was entirely sane no matter matter what she did.

But he also knew, admit it or not, Sherlock needed him to care for her like this--as she was.


End file.
